Monday Magpie

Figure Eight, 1952, Franz Kline


I want to be a poet, I have always
known it, my hopeless flow
of words forever trying
to arrange themselves just so --

my grandfather, his deep
vault of thoughts
and father, his dialogue
reciting what was sung or said
and mother, how her ink marks
became music

these are to thank, or blame

but poetry is for the eyes
that hear it, the ears
that can see what it is trying to say
hands that find a way to move
the pen and person
also for the grass, trees
in wind, the birds, the mind
and everything else that was made
to sing, the dance and sway
of numbers, science and the way
it fits its pieces perfectly

rhythm, rhyme, spot-on surprise
the sharp breath and the sigh

the pattern of all things
the privilege, still
I want to be a poet,
at least I have always known it


This poem is a response 
to a prompt from The Mag. 

Stop by to add your own twist to the story . . . 


Chelsea said...


Karen S. said...

By the way I read things, you are a poet! ...and should know it! Great write!

Brian Miller said...

oh but it think you are one...smiles....we all have the capability in us, you know...

Pam said...

Love this post!

Berowne said...

You have achieved your goal...

Lynda Halliger-Otvos said...

You're there, Susan, poetry is *your* slave now !~!

Tess Kincaid said...

I really like "deep vault of thoughts"...

Tumblewords: said...


Leenie said...

The rhythm and flow of your words is as interesting and unusual as Mr. Kline's dramatic number. Fun to read and well said.

Jinksy said...

Ah, the pattern of all things...

hyperCRYPTICal said...

I agree with Chelsea!

Anna :o]

~T~ said...

Oh, me too! Lovely.

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